Where To Go Next?
by Switchblade27
Summary: When Anderson makes a sarcastic remark, Sherlock's lack of social skills causes him to interpret it in the wrong way, causing tension between Anderson and Sherlock like they've never felt before. I call this ship "Anderlock". Hope you enjoy.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock circled the corpse of a woman lying on the floor like a vulture about to feast.

"Sher-" started Anderson, who was cut off by a sharp yelp from Sherlock.

"Lestrade, make him shut up."

"But Sherlock, what if he has something important to say?" Lestrade sighed.

"Highly doubtful, but go ahead, if you must," huffed Sherlock in reply.

"That's a man," said Anderson with a wicked grin.

"What?"

"Was a man, I should say. Used to be called James Hawking, became Janie Hawking."

"How do you know?"

Anderson procured a small leather object in an evidence bag from his pocket. "Wallet."

"Should have known. But thank you, Anderson."

Anderson raised an eyebrow. He'd never got anything remotely close to a thank you from Sherlock.

Sherlock grew eerily silent, tugging at his dark brown curls.

"Everyone leave," Sherlock ordered. "Now."

"Clear out," Lestrade announced. "Anderson, stay and make sure Sherlock doesn't do anything stupid."

Anderson sighed and sat down.

1 hour later...

Anderson was busily chewing at his nails, and Sherlock was busy, away in his Mind Palace. Anderson was starting to get concerned.

"Are you alright? You've been away in your mind place thing for more than an hour."

"Been away," repeated Sherlock. "Been away, been away, BEEN AWAY!" he shouted with increasing intensity.

"Let me see that wallet," Sherlock yelled, his hands twitching excitedly.

Anderson tossed it to him, frightened by Sherlock's elevated state.

"Of course! The reason there was no sign of forced entry was because she unknowingly let the killer in! She was so high that she didn't even realize she was letting a stranger into her flat. When she texted her boyfriend saying she was going on a trip, she didn't mean travel. She meant an acid trip. Anderson you are brilliant! I could kiss you!"

"Oh, I'd love that," Anderson said sarcastically.

Sherlock, who wasn't exactly the best interpreter of social cues or sarcasm, did just that.

Not only did he kiss Anderson, he kissed him with a violent passion, slamming him against the wall and pushing close to him. The contempt and the perverse obsession Sherlock had regarding Anderson was visible in Sherlock's eyes. Anderson was lost for a moment, wondering whether or not it was wrong that he enjoyed this.

As Anderson regained his wits and pushed Sherlock away, there was only one question in both their minds.

What now?


	2. Chapter 2

It had been three days since the, well, event with Anderson. Both of them acted like nothing had happened, ignoring each other. If no one else knew, it was fine. They could go on silently killing each other with their menacing glares and everything would go back to normal.

That is, until Lestrade had his brilliant idea.  
"Isn't this a child's game?" sneered Anderson.  
"For once, I agree," Sherlock said, one eyebrow raised at Lestrade, who was setting down an empty water bottle on the floor.  
"Lighten up," laughed Sally, who elbowed him in the ribs as they all sat down in a circle, Sally, Molly, Anderson, Lestrade, and Sherlock.

After finding out that Lestrade was left back in high school, Molly talked to cadavers when she was lonely, and viewing an amusing impression of the Andesaurus, courtesy of Anderson, it was Sally's turn to spin the bottle.  
Sally delicately set the water bottle between her two fingers and violently jerked her wrist as she let go. Sherlock found, much to his dismay, that Sally was staring straight at him with a sadistic grin painted across her face.  
"Truth or dare, freak," she said nonchalantly.  
"Truth," Sherlock replied.  
"Who was the first person you ever kissed?"  
Anderson didn't know why, but his palms grew sweaty and his face pale. Sherlock must have kissed someone before him. But then again, it was Sherlock for crying out loud! He wouldn't know.  
"Dare," Sherlock corrected quickly.  
"No, no, no, you can't back out now," interjected Lestrade.  
"In this room," Sherlock mumbled.  
"What?" inquired Molly."The person is in this room," Sherlock huffed, abruptly standing up and leaving, slamming the door behind him.  
Sally and Lestrade lifted their hands in innocence, and Molly looked at the floor disdainfully.  
"I'll be leaving," Anderson announced, which was met by silence as he slipped out quietly.  
Anderson paced down the street angrily.  
Damn Lestrade and his stupid games. Damn Sally and her stupid questions. Damn Sher-  
And there he was behind Anderson like he could read his thoughts.  
"I was your first then," Anderson asked, not wanting to turn around and look into the bright blue orbs that seemed to peer into his soul every time he was in a five foot radius of Sherlock.  
"Yes."  
A moment of silence, then Sherlock's rich baritone graced the air.  
"Anderson."  
"Yes?"  
"Would you be my second?"  
Anderson turned to face Sherlock, pulling him down by his coat collar and staring him right in the eyes.  
One question plagued Anderson's mind. Where to go next?


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

It was 3:00 AM. Anderson dared not go to work, nay, he would not leave for fear of ridicule. What odd compulsion had driven him to /willingly/ let his lips meet Sherlock's again?

Perhaps it was the fact that he looked like a god. No, he was above that. He was his own class, some divine being, meant to be wondered about, not understood, but certainly not loved. But Anderson couldn't help his feelings for the man. It wasn't his porcelain skin, his icy blue eyes, the rich, dark curls on his head. It wasn't even his perfectly chiseled features, the way his shirts pulled cloyingly at his skin, the curious bitterness in his incredibly deep voice. It was the way that Anderson knew that while he and Sherlock had always despised each other, they secretly craved the approval of their opposites.

He began to wonder about Sherlock's whereabouts. Probably home, alone, wherever he lives. And that's exactly where Sherlock was. Sherlock lay in a manner surprisingly similar to Anderson, staring at the ceiling of the cheap loft space he currently occupied. Oh, to own his own flat instead of squatting in empty apartments. He could move in with someone, he thought to himself. Anderson, he thought, before shaking his head and laughing, his ebony hair bouncing. As if. But, then again. Sherlock reached for his phone, tentatively bringing his thumbs to the screen. He'd never done this before. Somehow, he thought he could trust Anderson. The polite thing to do, then, was to ask him in person.

1 Lombard Street, 8:00 tonight. Wear something nice, read the gleaming bubble on Anderson's phone. He lazily dragged his finger across the slide to unlock bar. Anonymous was the sender.

Sherlock, he thought to himself. It must be. Time to find something to wear, Anderson decided.

Sherlock sat alone at the table, blending into the framework. Like him, it was classic looking, with a few touches of modernity. Certainly not gaudy, tacky, or overdone. 7:53, read his watch. He knew Anderson was sitting outside the restaurant in his car, not wanting to seem like he cared too much.

At 8:04, Anderson walked in nervously, tugging at his sleeves, trying to identify Sherlock, who he assumed was in his element in a place so refined as this. Once he spied Sherlock's tall figure comfortably seated at a table in the corner, he hurried over.

"Nice place,"Anderson remarked, plopping into a chair. His voice dripped with awkwardness.

Sherlock's voice, however, retained its usual fluidity. "Of course," he replied, trying (and failing) to hide the rampant narcissism in his words. "I only put up with the best."

Anderson's cheeks turned a scandalous shade of red. He knew that was a reference to him. Sherlock began to ramble about some case or other he was working on, in which a young man had reportedly stabbed his girlfriend to death.

"I'd never do that to someone," he casually slipped in. "Except in the figurative sense." His lips curved upwards ever so slightly.

Brilliant, Anderson thought to himself. Sherlock not only understands the concept of, but can actively use an innuendo. Well. Two can play at this game.

Anderson daintily picked up his glass of wine, locking eyes with Sherlock. His tongue slid out of his mouth in the most obscene manner, lapping up the red liquid with animalistic flair. Smirking amusedly, but not losing eye contact, Sherlock dipped a cold finger into his wine, dragging it across his lower lip, pulling his lip down seductively in the process.

Patient, and not one to be bested, Anderson waited for their meals to arrive. When they did, Anderson eagerly popped a bite into his mouth, chewing slowly, hardly even looking down at his food. Sherlock, it seemed, had had the same idea, and watched Anderson as he ate with equal intensity. Then, the unexpected happened.

Sherlock calmly picked up his glass of wine, and drew it to his lips. He then managed to spill half the glass onto his shirt, as gracefully as one can spill wine on one's shirts on purpose. Unbuttoning his top two buttons, Sherlock elegantly dabbed at his bare chest with the napkin. Anderson, shocked by Sherlock's sudden willingness to vandalize his own clothes, was already by Sherlock's side, his strong sturdy digits over Sherlock's thin, wispy hands.

"It seems I have bested you in our little contest."

"Yeah," mumbled a surprised Anderson.

"Care to see what else I can best you in?"

Anderson nodded furiously. As he downed another glass of wine, Sherlock signaled for their waitress to bring over a check, which was paid with such celerity, Anderson couldn't even object and offer to leave the tip.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

"You've been gone a while," Lestrade remarked as Sherlock stormed past. "What made you come back? That last death was a confirmed suicide, by the way."

"Just popping by to see if I can be of any use." Sherlock spoke as if he was scared of something. Lestrade had known Sherlock for years and had seen the various expressions of Sherlock. He noted the way Sherlock's face changed, the slight upward curve of his lips when he was on the verge of discovery and the downturn of his eyes on those rare occasions when he was wrong. He had never seen Sherlock scared.

"Molly might need some help down with forensics. She's been working with the rest on a case, the usual homicide," Lestrade offered. Sherlock flashed him a fake smile and stalked off without a word.

"Are you alright?" Lestrade called to the back of Sherlock's head.

"Never better," replied the retreating figure. Sherlock attempted a stealthy retreat to the forensics lab where he knew Anderson was to be found. Although Anderson was really a field agent, he could always be found poking around in old evidence lockers and messing with the little glass bottles on the shelves you weren't supposed to touch. Sherlock had always chided him for this.

I have to apologize, Sherlock thought. For leaving him there, never answering my phone.

Sherlock had never tolerated insolence, he never pitied desperation. But with Anderson, it was different. He saw the look of longing in Anderson's eyes when he made a remark about Anderson's intelligence. He knew from the very beginning that this man would want nothing but someone to tell him for the first time that...

"Sherlock?" Anderson's nasally voice erupted with a sharp tone.

"I'm so sorry," Sherlock said, stepping back and brushing off his jacket, as if afraid of catching Anderson's scent.

"We need to talk," Anderson ordered, assertively taking the taller man by the sleeve and pulling him into the lab where he was known to frequent.

Sherlock could see why Anderson liked it so much. For all its solemness, it was a pretty place. It hadn't been used in ages, and the examining tables were pristine. The back wall was lined with classical anatomy books and other similar reads. The dust had settled on most of them. One book stuck out, looking like it had been used recently.

"I'd like to see your art, someday," Sherlock whispered. He certainly could have spoken aloud, but he felt his voice would disturb the immaculate atmosphere of the lab.  
"Sherlock," Anderson began exasperatedly.

"Is that your passion, Anderson? Art?"

"Sherlock," Anderson repeated, his voice a weak plea. Sherlock quit his idle chatter, and let Anderson breathe.

"What is this?" Anderson asked, gesturing back and forth between himself and Sherlock. Sherlock's expression was blank.

Not blank, innocent. Forgive him, O Lord, he knows not what he does.

"You kiss me, you kiss me again, you ask me to dinner and we get in he car. You know the story from there, you disappear for two weeks. What did you do for two weeks?"

Sherlock half smiled. Not that squinty eyed fake grin he gave people when he knew they would be swayed. The kind of smile he hid from Anderson all the time.

"Thinking of you."

Anderson's eyes were hoping, and praying, waiting for those words he'd always wanted to hear Sherlock say.

"You're brilliant, Anderson."

Cyclopedia Anatomicae. Anderson pulled the book off the shelf, carefully leaning the one on the left to the one on the right to prevent a shift in the collection. The place where the book was dragged off the shelf was free of dirt and looked like a black stripe on a gray painting.

The wood curled against calloused thumbs, and the scalpel fell to the table with a clang.

Pencil onto the canvas, making, making, making. He could make these lines look any way he wanted to. He could erase those shadows that lingered on his lover's eyes or make them more defined. He could make him hurt, he could make him feel euphoria.

His art made him a god.


	5. Chapter 5

Who's this doctor?

A text from ander❤❤❤ popped up on Sherlock's screen, and he frowned.

My new flatmate, he responded coldly. As of late, Anderson had become more and more distant. Perhaps it was Anderson's desire to "go public" as he crudely phrased it, that bothered Sherlock. His claims that their secrecy proved that Sherlock didn't love him, or his insistence on public displays of affection made Sherlock uncomfortable.

But then there was John Watson, with the blonde hair and determined bearing and kind eyes. There was something he possessed that Anderson didn't, and Sherlock was constantly haunted by the creeping feeling that he was only with Anderson because he was lonely.

John walked into the flat loudly, heaving breaths and jingling keys.

"Sherlock," he said with a wave, collapsing into his room and pulling his door shut behind him.

Sherlock was speechless. Hearing John say his name was overwhelming. And anyone who knew Sherlock knew he had never been speechless. So Sherlock brought himself to his feet and strode over to John's room, slender fingers silently turning the doorknob.

"Sherlock?" John's face flushed a wild fuchsia. flatmate entered.

Sherlock pressed his forehead to John's and the two could feel each other's breath against their lips. Sherlock leaned in, and as they kissed, he knew exactly where to go next.

**fin**

**Well, I kind of wanted to end this story, so I just threw John in there.**


End file.
